


In the land of gods and monsters

by Mado



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Hellboy - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: BPRD AU, Future pairings, I make it up as I go honestly, Monsters, Multi, Shifters, Supernatural Elements, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mado/pseuds/Mado
Summary: Natasha is bringing home another stray.  Clint panics.   SHIELD isn't what they think it is.  And Frank's just there to drive the van.A supernatural thriller that's not quite thrilling.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Frank Castle, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44
Collections: Winterhawk Valentine's Day 2020 Blind Date Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/gifts).



> Sorry I dropped the ball on this! I started writing like four things and could never settle on anything I liked so to make up for it there's probably gonna be a ton of chapters so like-- the gift that keeps on giving?

Both men sit, scarcely breathing as the second-hand ticks closer to the 12 mark, loud only because they're both so keenly zeroed in on it. Tic--- tic--- tic---

At 12 they both scramble, rifle parts clicking and cluttering against the table as the weapons are disassembled in near sync. Trigger guard, stock, rod, spring, bolt. It's only on the reassemble that their sync is lost and one man sets his assembled rifle down while the other struggles a few seconds longer with the last few parts.

“Ugh, okay fine--- two out of three.” Fingers stained with gun-oil and grease pass through an unruly mess of blond hair. Handsome features pinched with tired frustration. Voice pitched and begging. 

Frank Castle chuckles low, good humor allowing. “That was already three, you're off your game, Barton.” 

Clint's shoulders hunch, his glare hardhearted at best. “The guide pin keeps sticking.”

“That's because you never clean your weapon.” Castle chides, reaching out to take Clint's rifle to slowly disassemble again, reaching to pluck up the nearby discarded rag so he can detail it properly while the blond watches with a wilting scowl.

“I prefer my bow.” 

“Somehow gathered that, doesn't mean a bullet won't do in a pinch.” He slides the weapon back over then sinks back in his chair, giving Barton a long once-over, in an effort to pin down the source of the younger man's restlessness. It's difficult to determine why the archer continues to seek him out as a distraction with the option of any of the others on site. They're not friends, or at least not in the way that would make any sort of decent Life-Time movie-- they had a healthy comradery, sure. Neither would let the other die in the field if they could help it, and they were both capable and competitive enough. 

But it's not like they _talked._ So Barton really must have been getting desperate to continue to seek him out like this. Or lonely without his little red-headed shadow around. Christ but shifters were the worst when it came to moping.

Frank speaks again after the silence spans on for too long without an answer, lifting his chin. “Romonoff should be back soon yeah? What's it been, couple of months?” It's not a long time in the grand scheme of things, or at least not for him anyway. But you stop counting the days when you've been around for as long as he has.

“Six months, fourteen days.” Clint folds his arms across the table and slumps down on them, just about as pathetic as a puppy with its tail between its legs. Barton's just lucky that Frank's a dog person or else he'd probably mock the sullen behavior. 

“So? What's the mission? Gotta be something big if they got half of Delta benched for this long.” He already knows the mission but asks just the same. Still, it seems strange that it had been so long, Barton and Romanoff were attached at the hip, and for the Director to keep them apart like this? He had to have known how codependent the two were, it was damn near cruel to separate them. 

“I'm not benched.” Except he kind of is, or at least he hadn't been sent out to do anything especially useful, just a few missions with their newer human agents that felt more like babysitting than anything productive.

Frank just drops his chin in his palm and waits.

Barton slumps lower, his shoulder blades jutting as his forearms slide across the table. “They sent her back to Russia. Found some new guy they thawed out from cryo in one of Hydra's decommissioned bases. Super-soldier or something.”

“What? Like Rogers?” 

“Except more murder-y. Nat thinks he might have been the Winter Soldier.” 

Castle sits up, making a series of complicated faces, spreading his fingers across the table before settling on a scowl. Well, that was new information. 

“So SHIELD wants to recruit him?” 

“Sure I guess. If it's even him. The Winter Soldier hasn't been active since what, The 80's? He was rumored to be dead, right? Wouldn't you know?” Clint sounds a little uncertain as if he's just now questioning exactly what Frank does.

“Just because I'm a reaper doesn't mean I keep a compiled list of dead assholes.”

Barton breathes out a little 'oh' because yeah, sure, that makes sense... keeping track of the dead was probably a lot of paperwork or whatever.

“You worried?”

Clint blinks, inclining his head in a stupidly adorable blue-eyed look that's too much puppy and Frank can only silently curse that stupid canine half that makes it so, so, hard to pick on him. 

“That he's more her style. Mysterious, dark, Russian... Murder-y?” Clint's words, not his, but still.

Clint just scoffs, lifting his head and rolling his shoulders back with a satisfying crack of his spine.

“No more than Micro's gonna drop your broody ass for that new hot tech that just joined Alpha.” Ugh okay, Frank gets it, opposites attract or whatever. Even if both their human partners could probably do so much better. He's not past admitting that.

“More like no one else can stand him and he knows it.” He grumbles, scratching at the stubble under his chin, pointedly ignoring Clint's sudden grin. 

“You two are so married.” 

“And you and Natasha aren't?”

Clint pulls a face and they both say “Work wife,” at the same time in an almost identical serious tone.

Just as Barton's phone nearly buzzes off the table, silent mode causing enough vibration that it makes the scatter of loose bullets dance about with a metallic clatter. 

“Speak of the devil,” Frank says as Clint just stares at it with a sort of surprise like he thinks she might be calling because she knows they're talking about her. It gives him enough pause that he hesitates reaching for it long enough that Castle gets it first, swiping his thumb across the screen to answer.

“City pound, how may I direct your call?” Frank levels a smirk at Clint's affronted look, nodding his head slowly as he listens. “No ma'am, but I've got a stray here that you might be interested in.” He hands the phone over. “It's for you.” 

Clint snatches it from his fingers, pressing it to his ear. “Hey Nat--”

“щенок.” She's teasing him but the fondness in her voice soothes some deep place in him, he can't even think to seem irritated. “There's been some complications, unexpected Hydra activity here at the Moscow Headquarters. I'm bringing James home early.”

He mouths the word 'hydra' after Natasha says it, then the rest clicks.

Wait. James? Home? That's not how this was supposed to go, Nat was just there to help the Winter Soldier adjust to his new place in the world, to coax him into working with SHIELD and their partnership with their paranormal branch. There hadn't been any talk of bringing him back to New York. Oh god, maybe Castle had been right, maybe they were pushing Natasha off as the Soldier's new handler, maybe they'd stick Clint with some newbie human because he was loyal and complacent and an easy first assignment...

“Uh... today?” 

His panic must show on his face along with the following slack-mouthed silence because Frank knocks his ankle with the toe of his boot from under the table and reaches to take the phone back. 

“Yeah, me again. You gonna need a pick-up?” He nods slowly, holding a steady dark-eyed gaze with Clint, keeping his posture casual, trying to ooze a sense of calm for all that helps Barton's spiraling thought process.

“No, he's fine, just his usual scatterbrained.” Frank bobs his head in a nod. “Sure sure, we'll be there.” It's another full minute or two of him just listening before he agrees with a “Yeah.” and hangs up, setting Clint's phone back on the table between them.

_“James?”_ Is all Clint can think to say after a moment. Because they're on a first-name basis and--

“Hey.” Frank snaps him out of his thoughts. “It's fine, you're her partner, she needs your help. So let's go pick them up and worry about the rest later, huh?” 

Clint nods slowly, reaching to drag his phone back across the table before tucking it into the pouch of his hoodie.

–

It's six hours later when they pull up to the edge of the B terminal tarmac at Laguardia. Strange that Nat hadn't flown back to HQ via jet (it's not like they didn't have the resources), but there hadn't been any official orders, no chatter about Natasha returning that day. Even the rumor mill was silent as they checked out through the lobby, the guards at the security desk waving them past without so much as an upward glance. 

Clint isn't stupid. Maybe he's a little slow on the uptake sometimes, at least when he's in a position where he's allowed to feel comfortable, trusting-- like now, off-mission when there's nothing he should be concerned about. SHIELD has been his home for years, so why does he suddenly feel like he's unknowingly slipping beneath their radar? 

Frank is drumming his fingers along the staring wheel of his van, big black and unmarked, certainly not something that he'd been issued.

“... what's weird, Frank? Something's weird here.” Clint questions after the silence stretches for a little too long.

“Lot of shit's weird here.” Castle exhales, squinting out the tinted window. “She said Hydra, right? Like as in real life god damn Nazi's Hydra?” 

Clint nods slowly. “Yeah? So what? We stumble across Hydra shit all the time. They were elbow deep in the occult, right? And kicking their asses was sort of the whole reason SHIELD was formed?” Among other reasons, he should probably have done more reading and less just looking through the pictures in the archive.

“So you think they're gone?”

“Well... mostly, I mean sometimes you get a few neo-nazi vampire skinheads, or like some wackjob scientists that think they can crockpot up the perfect human specimen. Little fascist cults that don't know better than to keep out of shit they don't understand.”

“They were the first though, yeah? You said it, 'elbow deep in the occult.' collecting and cobbling together beasts and monsters, summoning things no one's got any right to. Ancient shit. Then one day it ain't fashionable to be a Nazi, so where does all that knowledge go?”

Clint shakes his head. “Fuck off Frank, SHIELD isn't---” 

“You catch more flies with honey.”

“You're paranoid! Jesus.”

“Yes I am.” He agrees, sounding out each word with a slow drawl. “So's your partner.”

Clint's not about to have a panic attack, he's not. And he's sure as hell not about to question his loyalty because SHIELD's been good to him, a home and a purpose and a handful of other misfit friends. Huh-uh. This is all stupid and sudden, there's no way that they could be bad people because Clint can smell bad people, he's been around them his entire life...  
He sits with his face in his hands for a solid minute before Frank speaks again.

“Game face on, Barton. Looks like Widow's coming in hot.” 

Or as hot as a 'car chase' consisting of two shuttle carts, a baggage trolley and a handful of armed men in suits. 

Clint instinctively reaches for his phone before it even rings, picking up to her gritting out-- “A little help?” Before he can even begin to even formulate where to start Frank has the van in drive and already speeding towards the action. 

His bow case is in the back and he scrambles over the arm of the seat, snatching it up as his arm crashes against the inside of the van with a sharp turn, bullets clanking against metal near his head but the vehicle must be reinforced because they're not piercing. 

He slides towards the back as they come to a stop, trusting Castle to have put him at a decent line of sight as he throws open the door, flicking open his recurve and tugging an arrow from his propped up quiver. “I changed my mind, bless your paranoia.” He calls back, aiming and letting loose an explosive arrow that stirs up a whirlwind of fire and smoke between the first shuttle and the wave of bullshit behind it. 

Through the smoke he can make out Natasha and her shock of bright red hair, whipping in the wind as she pitches herself from the cart and continues on foot towards the van. Falling in-step beside her is the Winter Soldier, built solid under too much dark leather (at least in Clint's opinion), his own long hair tousled in a dramatic fashion and Clint can imagine some movie-esque dramatic scene, especially when they both turn and fire at the last few stragglers in suits that emerge from the billowing smoke.

“Let's go.” Natasha is suddenly at his side, using his shoulder to help haul herself up into the back of the van, the Soldier following suite shortly, but not before he turns his head and he and Clint make eye-contact for a moment that's long enough to feel awkward. Gray to blue, soot smeared and scowly.

Because. _Because._

_Oh no, he's hot._


	2. Chapter 2

Frank has connections, because of course he does. Or rather, Micro has connections and Frank has leeched off them by virtue of proximity.

It's landed them a cozy little safe house in St. Louis after two weeks on the run with SHIELD...sorry, HYDRA spreading its resources thin searching for them once they'd realized who and what had liberated their sleeping weapon from a bunker they'd actually lost record of in 1981. 

Fuck them, finders keepers. 

Clint has been designated as their stay-at-home mom. Partly because he'd managed to blow himself up helping to “discontinue” an enemy base somewhere near Connecticut on their rampage south-west, as far away from New York and Washington and that entire shit-storm.

He's fine with it, he needs a vacation anyway, as much as he misses his dog and his crummy little apartment in Bed-Stuy. (Thankfully a phone-call and Kate has all of that covered). Even if it means he's spending days on the couch, waiting for his body to knit it's self back together (Quicker thanks to the blessing of his shifter blood), watching day-time TV and obsessively checking his phone for texts from Nat.

Sometimes he gets updates from Steve; who has a cushy little side job with Tony Stark working aside the probably not dead but officially so Nick Fury. They'd been invited in but nah, both he and Tasha have had enough with professional spy-games and subterfuge that they're taking a break from Neo-SHIELD right now. (they probably have a name for themselves, but that's what he's calling them.) And Bucky's still a little too gun-shy to work with anyone that was even unintentionally adjacent to the organization that controlled/tortured/held him captive for seventy-plus years. Even if one of them is his BFF (Historically, because the guy's memory is pretty much swiss-cheese at this point.) 

Their other outside contact is Micro, who is still elbow deep in HYDRA territory but such an unassuming nerd that his loyalty is hardly questioned. He makes an awesome mole and Clint has more than a little respect for the work he does. No wonder Frank: badass gritty 'I don't need friends' Reaper keeps him around. 

It's been three days since Nat and Barnes dipped out to investigate some rumor of HYDRA activity in Illinois, and Clint can't imagine there's too much to that, because _Illinois_ , so he isn't concerned that there hasn't been an update for a while, they can enjoy their road-trip of sunflowers, cows and corn.

Frank dips in once or twice a day, bringing in supplies or reporting in, even if Clint already knows as much from monitoring their secure connection. Keeping tabs on the few of them they know they can trust, and listening in on the ones they can't. It's unfortunately a small circle in a big world.

It's been a quiet day so far, the time creeping somewhere past noon though he hasn't checked the clock, he just knows when his stomach protests that it's been too long since breakfast that he's eaten. As an added discomfort he's a little itchy this close to a full-moon, but not close enough that he can use it as an excuse to be moody. He'd grouse about being lonely but he's also thankful that everyone's out for it. It's a weird feeling, like something crawling beneath his skin-- the phantom sensation of an extra weight on his chest when he's laying down. Sharpened senses; an odd scent here, a distant sound there... even if his hearing isn't that good, not for a while anyway. 

Making lunch feels like too much effort, especially when he knows there's not much in the fridge beside leftover pad thai and condiments, maybe a few slices of mummified pizza from the weekend, but they're from Nat's half and he doesn't like green peppers on a good day. 

“I'd rather starve,” He murmurs, thoughtful, finally managing to dig a can of tuna out from the back of the cupboard, it isn't as tempting as the box of freeze-dried potatoes but requires less effort to prepare, so he just peels it open and grabs a fork to shovel it into his mouth. It's a salty and satisfying texture at least. It's not what he wants, not at the primal level anyway-- which is something hot and fresh and copper-tasting that rips apart beneath his teeth. 

Clint drops the empty can into the trash and flicks the fork towards the sink, collapsing near boneless onto the couch again, no one is around so he can be as dramatic as he wants.  
It's boring. Peaceful for a change, but boring. He about dozes off again.

At least until the front door slams open, saved only by the spring door-stop, sparing the drywall from an unsightly hole from the knob. 

“Jesus--” he starts, scrambling up from the couch, just in time for Frank to stalk past and deposit Barnes down on the sleep-warm cushions gracelessly.

There's blood. Oh, there's so much blood that the scent of it almost overwhelms him, goosebumps pricking along his skin because he doesn't have the hackles for it right now, his mouth thick and full of saliva but it's just instinct, not hunger. In fact it sends a sharp kick to his fight or flight- because it's only been a few weeks but he's re-identified his pack. It's important- after SHIELD fell there were few he could trust, those who imprinted on him quickly. Like a self-preservation instinct. A need for family. Nat of course, then Frank and with some hesitance (no matter how goddamn beautiful those blue-gray eyes were) Barnes. Close proximity and teamwork did that.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is high, panicked, and while he can usually get his shit together in a pinch (not as fast as Natasha, but he'd learned his game-face from her). He's still surprised, heart hammering in his throat as he hovers, trying to assess the damage but there's a lot of fabric in the way, a lot soaked through with too much black-- too much red. 

Frank doesn't answer at first, his boots heavy against the wood floor as he stalks to the kitchen to pull out the med-kit. It's heavy-duty, professional-grade 'we don't fuck around' stock that you'd find in ambulances. Trauma wards. 

“Shit went south.” It's Nat's voice and even before he looks he's exhaling the painful ache of tension in his chest that had been building the moment Castle had arrived with Barnes and no sign of her. It had only been a few panic-filled minutes but it had been enough to feed some fear in him. It's almost too much right now. 

He wants to reach for her, but she waves him away, she's mostly fine and he needs to prioritize his need to assess his pack. Barnes is hot and blood-slick beneath his hands and he turns his attention back, trying his best to soothe with a low-hushing sound that probably goes unheard-- the Soldier only convulses, eyes squeezed closed and jaw clenched tight.

It takes some work but he sorts out how to liberate Bucky from his tact-gear, too many straps and zippers, and his fingers are stained red by the end of it but he can find the worst of his wounds (there's an even line of them from bullets, from hip to shoulder) to put pressure on when Frank returns, dropping the opened kit on the coffee table behind them.

“He's lost a lot of blood.” Frank says the obvious. 

“Oh you mean all this stuff that belongs inside of him?” Clint can't help the panic-induced snark, and he'd gesture, but his hands are busy keeping pressure. It's too hot, god, why is there so much?

“He needs a hospital. Nat... we can't do this.” He surprises himself with his own voice, pitched with an almost whine that even earns him a sympathetic look from Castle.

She's picking through the med-kit, pulling on a pair of gloves, and unwrapping a scalpel and tweezers from their sterile packs. She's no medic, but they've all learned a few skills on the fly. 

“They're monitoring the hospitals, they've got us pinned.” She says, low and surprisingly calm as she does her best to wipe away the pooling blood so she can get at the first of bullet wounds. Her hand steady. 

“Frank, can you set up for a transfusion? Clint's O-negative, he can spare some.” 

First off Clint wants to protest because how does she know that? Also-- “What? No! Did you forget the part where I'm a Lycan? Hello, blood disease!”

“He's immune, I read his file. HYDRA tried before.” She said shortly, sounding sure even as she pulls a slug from beneath Barnes' collarbone, moving to the next wound without so much as an upward glance. 

Clint doesn't feel especially assured but he doesn't fight Frank as the other man nudges him back while he unwinds the tubing after freeing it from the pack, calloused fingers feeling for the thick vein in the crook of his arm before sliding the needled into place. Practiced and clinical in a way that has him wanting to comment. Of course their profession allows it, but Frank shouldn't be so good at this. 

There isn't much else he can do, Nat's running the show so he just sinks down on the floor beside the couch, trying not to jostle the IV between himself and Barnes, adrenaline burning beneath his skin but dulling to a faint hum. It's too much too fast, and maybe it's shock setting in, his own pulse obvious, throbbing behind his eyes and heavy in his chest but suddenly Frank's fingers sink into his hair, blunt nails against his scalp and he calms almost instantly, grounded. 

He hates and loves it, lids lowering even as Frank assures him that everything's going to be okay in a low rumbling tone, untangling all the anxious tension in his chest like picking through tangled yarn. 

He exhales, slow and easy, unaware of how tightly he'd been gripping Bucky's wrist this whole time until he feels the ache the metal plates left behind, indented against his palm and fingers.

Suddenly he's dizzy. Cold and dizzy and--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look writing is hard. I'll trade art for a beta. :3 Seriously, halp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One soft moment...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even a real chapter, just a brief lucid moment before I get into the meat of chapter 3. Sorry :(

Clint wakes with a jolt, teeth clacking as awareness hits him as gracefully as a freight-train flying off its tracks. 

He tries to sit up but a hand plops down on his chest, there's not enough force to keep him down but the slight weight of it is enough to make him stay, remind him to slow himself, process. 

“Nat?” He smells vanilla and rain and some other crisp-sweet scent he can't identify in the hair product she likes. It's nice, comforting, and almost covers the lingering scent of stale blood.

“I'm sorry щенок,” She says, rubbing his chest and belly over the soft cotton fabric of a clean t-shirt. He knows this because the one he'd been wearing last had been tacky and stained through. Clint closes his eyes and relaxes back, again, sinking into what he realizes is a bed. “You were still recovering, I shouldn't have asked that of you.” 

His eyes snap open again, body tensing. “Is Buck---?” 

“He's fine. Sleeping and healing. You did well.” Nat shifts on the bed, reaching up to stroke his hair as she settles her weight on her hip and elbow, resting her cheek against her palm.

Clint exhales a breath, lids fluttering closed again, letting Natasha soothe him with the simple touch because he's easy for it. She traces his forehead with her fingertips, smoothing the furrow between his brows, her touch feather-light over the bridge of his crooked nose before ghosting over the bruising beneath his eyes-- the back of her knuckles brush gently across his cheek, soft against the rasp of week-long stubble, thumb following the line of his jaw down to his chin before tapping it gently.

“You were very brave, thank you.” She presses her lips to his forehead, cradling his face. He doesn't need the praise, would hate it if there were someone else to witness it-- but they're alone and a small part of him basks in it like a patch of warm sunlight in the cool dawn of spring.

He reaches up to wrap his arms around her and she acquiesces, curling her own arms around his head and lets his body take her weight. Both giving and taking the moment of comfort as they've always done with each other, touch-starved and unabashedly greedy for it.

“Can I see him?” Clint murmurs against her shoulder after a while, he doesn't know why, but he needs to see for himself that Barnes is alive and okay, some sort of psychical assurance-- maybe something to soothe the wolf in him, too close to the surface; wild and nervous and distrustful of words. 

“You both need rest.” It isn't a 'no' or she would have said so right off, a tentative request instead, but he's stubborn.

“Please Tash, I won't bother him.” 

She sighs and leans back, gently scratching her perfectly manicured nails beneath his chin, leaving him to lift his head a little and enjoy the almost tickling sensation. She's never had any problem treating him like a pampered dog in private and he loves her a little bit for it. “He's across the hall, come on then.” 

He pushes himself out from under the simple sheets once she sits up again and they untangle from each other. Nat leads the way, silent and barefoot across the plush carpet with Clint moving slow and a little achy at her heels. He does his best to ignore the slightly woozy feeling that clouds his head, like waking in the middle of the night after too much drinking but right before a proper hangover has had time to set in.

Natasha is right and Barnes is asleep, looking a little too pale against the dark comforter beneath him, a patchwork quilt spread over his legs. His entire torso in bandaged up in crisp-white, but it looks fresh and clean with no sign or scent of blood or infection. He looks peaceful. 

Clint is across the room before he even recognizes that his feet are taking him there, a little wobbly at first until he gets a knee up on the bed and climbs in, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight before he can fold himself on his side near Bucky without touching. He just needs to be close. Curling his arm beneath his cheek as he settles. Watching. 

Nat doesn't stop him, doesn't speak, maybe a little concerned that doing so would wake the Soldier or rile whatever instincts that seem to be driving Clint's sudden protective vigil.

Laying down again helps settle the static in his head. The anxiety in his chest easing to a barely-there pressure. His pack is home. They're alive. They're safe.

His lids start to feel heavy again, but Natasha catches his attention with a sharp motion from the corner of his eye. When he looks she's signing to him in a smooth and easy motion. _Rest. Please. Rest._

He doesn't sign back, just shifts his head in a nod and closes his eyes, exhaling out a breath that feels like he'd held for hours, focusing on Bucky's scent- a mix between worn leather and freshly turned earth, with a hint of something sharp an metallic, like the hood of a car warmed beneath the summer sun. 

It calms him. The wolf inside of him, and he drifts back into a dreamless sleep again.


	4. ...this looks bad.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He waits out a few long minutes before speaking again, the wolf's ear twitching against his cheek from his breath, “So this is pretty terrible...” And uncomfortable, because Bucky is heavy and there's a bony elbow pressing into his ribs, not to mention the slowly cooling gore that's soaking into his clothing. Going a day or two without ending up drenched in blood would be nice.

Clint wakes up to moaning.

He lays still for a long awkward moment before the stilted sounds stop, just long enough that he's beginning to think he'd imagined it; his brain still foggy with sleep, limbs heavy enough that he isn't sure he can move if he tried. It's easy enough to let himself start to slip back down, catching up on whatever half coherent dream he'd been having. _Falling snow and mountains reflecting through fogged up glass. The curled lips of a black maw, bared fangs and breath puffing clouds of white into the frosty air._

The sound comes again and with it the shifting of blankets beneath him. It's pained, gritting, and low-suffering. It leaves the downy hairs of the back of his neck prickling up.

Clint flips himself over after a short battle with the afghan that had been thrown over him at some point, nearly crashes his nose into Bucky's elbow-- the other man has somehow ended himself twisted sideways on the bed in the tangled carnage of his own blankets. Curled up into a tight ball. Sweating and shaking, gasping for breath.

“Oh geez, hey!” He rocks himself up to sit, landing a hand on Bucky's back, the bare skin under his fingers unpleasantly damp and too hot, muscles rippling in a way that feels a little too unnatural for a shudder-- the sensation almost makes him recoil before he steels himself, fingers curling over Bucky's shoulder to help heave him over onto his back.

The room is stale and dimly lit but he can see just fine, the moon more than bright enough to illuminate everything it touches in shades of pale blue and silver-white. Full and brilliant where it spills in through the dusty curtains while the darkness swallows everything else.

“Man it's okay, I've got you,” Bucky's eyes are on him, wild and dark, the color all swallowed up by blown pupils. His face is tight with pain, leaving the veins along his forehead prominent, the ones in his neck more so-- tendons straining as if he's being strangled. “Barnes, talk to me buddy, What hurts? I can't help you if I don't know what...”

Clint's eyes snap to the window and his brain stutters out for a moment, ears ringing with white noise with the sharp realization. His scent has changed, it's-

“Oh shit. Oh god, oh fuck. Hang on.” He gets his knees beneath him, grabbing Bucky under the armpits, pulling him up with more effort than he hopes for. He's so _heavy_ , especially with that metal arm, sweat-slick skin making it difficult to find purchase. The shift and strain of his pained struggle doesn't help; his body pitching in a way that nearly makes Clint lose his grip, so he settles for wrapping his arms around his chest. “Come on, we've got to get you outside,”

He wrangles Bucky halfway to the window before he remembers they're on the second floor, and while they're technically out of the city and spooning a park, it's still too close to the suburbs. They have neighbors close by, close enough that he can smell the smoke from the grill during their weekend cookouts.

Barnes' fingers dig into his arm as Clint pivots them away from the window, trying to formulate a new plan. This place has a basement but he doesn't think they'll make it that far, not when it feels like gravity is working against him and the Soldier is practically vibrating out of his skin.

“Hurts,” Bucky grits out, and while Clint is sympathetic to the familiar pain, he's more than a little grateful that Barnes has his shit together just enough to verbalize anything. The first time is always the worst, any sort of coherency means he'll manage better in the future. “What's... what's happening?” His words garble out, low and strangled from shifting vocal-cords.

“I wish I could tell you it's just food poisoning.” Clint digs his heels into the carpet, changing their coarse in a graceless stumble towards the bathroom, they just make it to the linoleum when he feels the first snap of bone and rip of sinew against his chest, muscle straining beneath his arms while Bucky screams from it. He lashes out, sending them both toppling backward through a tangle of gaudy plastic curtain and into the bathtub.

Clint nearly brains himself on the faucet, his vision whiting out and air knocked from his lungs.

When he recovers it's to two-hundred pounds of soggy wolf on top of him, soaked and shaking, both of them covered in the gory remains of the human body it had ripped itself from. (He gags because oh god he's pretty sure he's got some of it in his mouth.)

The wolf moves, twisting in an effort to get its legs back beneath it, slipping against the bloody porcelain and Clint reaches back up to hang on, curling his fingers in it's thick scruff to keep it down. He isn't sure how much of his wits Bucky has managed to keep, but if he's feral Clint sure as hell can't let him get out.

Of course if he's feral then Clint is about to get his face bitten off. This isn't exactly the way he expected to go but he's unsure if he can manage to shift fast enough to put up a fight.

Bucky snarls and Clint does his best to go limp, squeezing his eyes closed as he bares his throat in a gesture of submission, prays to whatever gods who are in the mood to listen today that this new wolf has the instincts to understand the gesture. Or if he dies at least this will make it quicker.

The growling abruptly stops and he finally exhales a shuddering breath as a cold nose nudges beneath his chin, snuffling around along his throat and between his collarbones before a hot tongue sweeps up along the tender underside of his jaw. Then all at once that weight falls back down, heavy across his chest.

“There we go,” Clint's grip loosens, fingers carding through thick fur, soothing with a soft murmur as Bucky's head lowers to his shoulder. The first time is exhausting, he knows, when all the adrenaline wears off. He'd slept for nearly two days... after he'd eaten four of the neighbors' chickens and chased their cat up a tree. It's almost lucky for him that Barnes had been so injured, he actually has a chance to keep him from running off.

He waits out a few long minutes before speaking again, the wolf's ear twitching against his cheek from his breath, “So this is pretty terrible...” And uncomfortable, because Bucky is heavy and there's a bony elbow pressing into his ribs, not to mention the slowly cooling gore that's soaking into his clothing. Going a day or two without ending up drenched in blood would be nice.

There doesn't seem to be any hope of him getting up either, not without shifting, and he isn't sure that's the best plan so instead he resigns himself to his fate as a dog bed.

Natasha finds them like that some hours later, long enough that the shirt sticking to his skin is more stiff than tacky and one of his legs has long since fallen asleep under the weight pinning his hips.

He opens his eyes to her sharp intake of breath but he can't see past the side of the tub and she likely can't see past the hulking lump of matted fur to spot him so he lifts his hand to give her a thumbs-up before dropping it to rest into the wolf's scruff again.

_"Bozhe moi_. Clint, is that Barnes?” She speaks softly, no doubt to avoid rousing the Shifter, though he can hear her unclipping the safety strap of her holster. Normal bullets probably won't do shit if he does decide to wake up and attack her, but it might slow him down enough for Clint to rein him in.

“Yup.”

"Is any of that blood yours?”

“Nope.”

He grips Bucky's scruff tighter as he hears her approach, boot-heels clicking across the tile until she's peering over the edge, her expression a mix between concern and amusement and Clint's pretty sure she's the only person who can pull off both at the same time.

“Was he feral?” She reaches out slowly, first covering his hand with her own for a brief squeeze, then running her fingers through the sleeping wolf's fur. It doesn't stir beyond the heavy sigh that heaves through him.

“I don't think so. Just confused. He was already so messed up from before, shifting just wiped him out.”

She draws back to study them both, shaking her head. “You can't get up, can you?”

“Sure can't.”

Her sigh is exaggerated, long-suffering as if this was the sort of thing she walked in on often. “I'll go get Castle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I like to drag this story along at a snail's pace.


End file.
